


Clear My Head

by electricblueninja



Series: Heaven and Hell [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Canon-ish, Destiel - Freeform, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Lust at First Sight, M/M, Smut, male writer, season 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:42:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26248135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricblueninja/pseuds/electricblueninja
Summary: Set after the end of Season 5. Lisa and Ben are away, and Dean is alone.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: Heaven and Hell [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1915132
Kudos: 29





	1. Haunted

I heard him call.

I heard fear and anguish in his voice, so I came.

Tonight, he is alone. I can only feel one soul--his. Lisa and Ben are not here.

Dean is alone in the bed he shares with Lisa. There is a sheen of sweat on his forehead, and deep furrows in his brow. He is tossing in his sleep, and whimpering. His hands are grasping at things that are not there. His terror and pain are so strong I can taste them. 

I go closer to the side of the bed, and he twists and rolls onto his side, facing towards me. Between those small sounds that he's making, the sounds of an injured animal that expects no help, he says my name again, and reaches out.

This time, there is something to hold onto; his hand grasps a fistful of the sleeve of my coat. There is a moment of confusion and desperation on his sleeping face, and he says my name aloud, tremulous and uncertain. Turning towards me has exposed the handprint that I seared into his skin when I pulled him out of hell, and I lay my hand over it again now. It has healed considerably, but the skin is still blistered and rough. It will never heal completely. A human life is too short for that.

"Cas...Cas, is that you? Help me…Please." 

His voice cracks over the last syllable, and I realise that his eyes are now half-open, glinting in the light cast by the streetlamps outside, although this does not necessarily mean he is awake.

I let my hand rest more heavily on his arm.

"I am here, Dean. You are safe. You're only dreaming. While I live, you will never go back to Perdition."

His eyes open a little more as I speak, and he appears to bring reality into focus, though he is only looking at where his fingers are twisted into the fabric of my coat. 

"Cas," he murmurs. This time, his tone is relieved instead of wretched. "You heard me."

"Yes, Dean. I am here."

He releases my coat, and reaches instead for my hand, gripping it tightly with his rough, calloused fingers. 

It is an unexpected gesture, and I do not know what to do. My vessel's reaction is also somewhat unexpected. Jimmy was a married man who procreated. His physical response is...is not his. 

It's mine. 

This is a very uncomfortable realisation. I feel it may be prudent to leave as soon as possible. He is vulnerable, and this body I inhabit is sordid. Or at least, this is what I would like to believe: that this vessel is the thing at fault, even though I know it is a lie.

I am beginning to understand why humans are so partial to false comfort. It is embarrassing to think that those scornful predictions my brothers and sisters made might be coming true -- that I have committed the sin of pride, and, in my pride, committed the deeper sin of deceit. If my vessel tells a truer truth than the one I subscribed to, then my love for this human might not, in fact, be of a heavenly nature.

"Dean, I..."

I don't know why I even start the sentence. I have no intention of finishing it. I have no idea what to say.

But Dean is still at least partly elsewhere, and he does not notice any of my idiocy. His expression suggests that still sees only his memories of hell. 

"I keep dreaming about it, Cas. I can't forget. I drink and I drink...God help me, I drink till I don't make sense, but Dad's still gone, and Sam's still gone, and Adam's still gone, and I'm still fricking here, alone. There’s Bobby, but I can't even set eyes on him without thinking about Sammy, locked up in hell, being tortured, worse even than how I tortured those hundreds--thousands--of souls, and..."

He trails off, heaving in a breath that probably would have come out as a sob if he'd let it. His hand tightens on mine. "I can't do it, Cas. I'm...I'm living a lie, here. This apple-pie life, it's bullshit."

"I would bring him back if I could, Dean." 

There's a flash of anger from Dean as I speak. It passes through his skin into my body. It is visceral, and ragged-edged with grief and guilt. I feel the same, sometimes. Why me? Why assign me to save this man, when I am weak, and foolish? When I break the laws of heaven and hell trying to protect and please him? And even then, I fail. For you, I've started a war that could be worse than Armageddon.

"Believe me, Dean, I would give anything to be able to bring him back to you. To bring all of them back."

He knows that. His anger is not directed at me. When his anger is for me, I feel it far more sharply than this. The only thing more painful would be having my grace ripped out. This anger is more general: a composite of his frustration and helplessness.

I would do anything for you, Dean. That is why Sam is back...Most of him. But I can't tell you that, because even I am not yet sure what I have done, or what the price will be. What I have rescued from the cage is only the shell of him, and it would hurt you too much to see him how he is right now. I don't want that to happen. You suffer enough as it is.

"Dean, I...I should go."

"No. Please. Don't."

"Dean--"

"Don't leave me, Cas. I need…"

He trails off, but he doesn’t need to finish the sentence. I know what he is unable to say. His tension is not entirely the tension of fear. Dean is not the first human to respond to one type of arousal with another. It is a strange phenomenon, but it makes a kind of sense. If you’re going to die, die happy, or something to that effect. But he has rarely given any indication before that my vessel could satisfy any of his baser instincts, and I am puzzled by the notion that I am suddenly the object of his desire.

I am also afraid of being nothing more than a convenience. 

"I am the wrong person to ask, Dean. You have a woman for that. A good woman."

"Well she's not here. You are."

An undercurrent of frustration carries the words from his mouth, and the way he says ‘You are’ weakens me. 

"Dean--"

"You said you'd give me anything I needed, didn't you? This is anything. I need this."

"I don't see how this is related to resurrection." 

It's a weak defence. And he's right. My exact phrasing had been 'Anything within my power to give, I will give you', and this does fall within those parameters.

"Shut up, Cas. Don't make me beg. Please."

My resolve was only a thin layer of ice to start with, and it is thawing quickly, under pressure from both above and below.

I think, too, about how much he hates to ask for assistance. We are both prideful. It is the companion of our shame.

"If it is what you truly desire, I will stay."

As though this vessel, subject to my consciousness, is not experiencing enough desire for us both already. Farcical, really.

Dean does not say anything more. He lets go of my hand and sits up, the bedclothes falling away from his torso. He seems pale because of the fluorescence of the streetlights, the light expanse of his skin interrupted only by the dark stain of my handprint, and some other, less-noticeable, more organic scars.

"You'll have to take the coat off," he says, gruffly, and I realise that he is trying to hide a certain shyness that neither he nor I expected.

I shrug it off, and it falls to the floor with a heavy thud. 

Dean shuffles backwards on the bed to make room for me. There is not enough light for Jimmy's eyes to be certain, but my senses are more attuned than his, and I can feel the heat radiating from Dean's cheeks. It is one of several ways that human bodies show arousal. Mine is doing the same thing, so I stoop, cleverly concealing my face through the act of untying my shoes.

"You will need to be careful with this vessel," I say to the floor. "I do not believe it is accustomed to...I mean...you know."

Surprisingly, he has no joke at the ready in reply. Instead, he shifts forward again, up onto his knees, and his big hands fumble, gently and inelegantly, with the knot of my tie. Instinctively, I lift my chin for his convenience, and one of his hands climbs to my throat, fingertips resting on the nape of my neck: profoundly inefficient, in terms of getting my tie undone, but alarmingly effective at increasing my heartrate.

"Do you ever shave?" he mutters, as his hand rises to my jaw and his thumb brushes along my cheekbone.

"Every two to three days," I reply. "If it is unpleasant to touch, I can go and tend to it now."

"Shut up, Cas." He emits a small grunt of triumph as the knot of my tie comes undone, and then repurposes that hand as well, cupping both sides of my face.

It feels like a very long moment before our lips meet, although I know that that is just a trick of my own anticipation.

I have only been kissed a handful of times since occupying this vessel, and I have not yet really understood why it is such an esteemed activity among humans. A pleasant sensation, yes, but little more than that.

Once again, it takes Dean to make me understand. His kiss is not a slightly damp opportunity for mutual gratification. His kiss is warm and searching, seeping deep into my bones until he finds and acknowledges some heretofore unknown essence of me, and asking for an answer. Like a flame seeking kindling, and it appears that I am suitably combustible, because I am, figuratively, alight within moments. There is a strange, fizzing sensation in my stomach. I do not know what to do with my hands, but they make their own decisions. They reach forward, seeking skin, and come to rest on Dean's sides. One of us moans into the other's mouth, and if I had felt hot with a mixture of shame and arousal before, it is now positively volcanic.

Dean reaches down between us, still pressing his lips to mine, promising and demanding by turns as he tugs roughly at the buttons of my shirt. The product is not well-made, and he is not careful; at least one of them comes off entirely, and rattles its way across the floor. He is proficient at undressing people; in seconds, I am naked to the waist, and he is reaching for my belt, his knuckles pressing against my abdomen. My muscles convulse involuntarily at the contact. Jimmy's body appears to be on the sensitive side.

Dean notices, and breaks away from my lips, but leans his forehead against mine.

"I'll be gentle," he says. "I swear."

There is a hint of whisky on his breath, and a faint cinnamon scent to his skin; a clink as he unbuckles my belt, and a rustle of fabric as my trousers slide to the floor.


	2. This Guy

I, Dean Winchester, am corrupting an Angel of the Lord.

Again.

I swear I don’t set out to bang angels.

Honest to God, I just need to feel real, alive, and for me sex is the best way to do that.

And anyway, Cas chose to come here. I'm not forcing him to do anything. I asked, and he said yes. It could have been anyone, and it probably wouldn't have been a dude, but...Cas is Cas. It's different. And we're here now, and I'm most definitely on the way up, even though the feeling of stubble against my skin is rough and unfamiliar, and he smells of mint instead of perfume.

After I kiss him, he lets me undress him, but then he just stands there in his shorts, all nervous and awkward in spite of his massive boner.

I guess I'm kind of nervous, too, because my brain unhelpfully draws attention to the size of his dick, and cheerfully links that to my go-to description of the angels.

"Why are you smiling?" Cas asks, looking uncertain. "Have I done something amusing?"

"No, Cas. Don't worry about it. I'm just kind of...impressed," I answer, nodding downwards.

It's too dark to tell, but I _think_ he flushes.

"I do not know what to do next," he says, softly, after a long pause. "I will need your guidance, Dean."

Right. I was forgetting just how badly my attempts to get him laid had failed.

I shuffle back onto the bed again, and pat the mattress beside me.

"Yeah. Okay. First thing you need to do is get your ass up here."

He's still hesitant. He sits carefully on the very edge of the bed, and leans down to pull his socks off.

I'm curious about what his body will feel like, so I reach out to trace my fingertips down the slope of his back, and he shivers, gooseflesh spiralling out from the path of my fingers.

It's reassuring to have this effect on him. I follow on with my lips, leaning over him, beginning at his shoulder and making my way down his back. His breath becomes jerky and uneven as I travel along his skin, and it’s gratifying to know that even if he _is_ overflowing with celestial might, and powerful enough to pull me out of hell, my mouth on his skin can still make him shudder.

I reach around, pushing my fingers against the pliant muscle of his chest, and he moans, his heart beating loud and fast. His body is not as hesitant as his mind.

"I need you to explain what I should do, Dean," he says, in a strangled tone.

"Mm-hm. You should lie down, against the pillows, on your back."

I get out of the way long enough for him to follow the instructions, then lie alongside him, propped on my elbow.

"See, Cas, this guy down here--" I direct a pointed look to the front of his boxers "--he doesn't get much love, does he?"

Cas frowns slightly as he processes the question. "...Are you referring to masturbation?"

Okay, so I might have to adjust my approach to foreplay here.

"Sure. Any attention at all, really."

He shakes his head slightly, his hair rustling against the pillowcase. "This is a vessel. It is a borrowed body. We are discouraged from using them for...impure pursuits. I do not indulge in any of…that sort of thing."

“Never?”

“No.”

"So…you've taken on all the bad parts of being human, but you never let yourself have any of the fun?"

His eyes widen a little. Clearly, he's never thought about it that way before.

"I ate burgers, once--"

"That was Jimmy. Because of the Sins."

"--and I drank to excess--"

"Because you were miserable."

"--and I am supposed to have a _higher_ _purpose_ , Dean."

"Yeah, but your higher purpose is _me_ anyway, so..."

"I don't see the purpose of continuing this conversation. This is a mistake," he says, testily, and goes to get up. 

I push him back down against the pillows, and given that he literally has the power of Heaven at his disposal, and I've watched him overcome far stronger opponents than me, he's not putting up much of a fight.

"Okay, okay. I'm sorry. What I'm trying to say is..."

I pause, because I actually have no idea what I'm trying to say. 'Thanks for letting me bone you'? 'It's the only thing that helps me feel okay about this shit-fest of a life I have, where everyone who matters to me dies or leaves'? 'I know you sometimes watch me sleep and it should creep me out but it doesn't; it makes me feel safe; like someone gives a damn'?

"I'm trying to say thank you," is what I eventually come up with. "I know that I'm being selfish, and the least I can do is try…to share the…the…"

"You want to share pleasure," he says, quietly, as I scramble for words, "with me."

"I--yeah."

I mean, now he's gone and said that, it's kind of gay, and I was trying not to think about that part. But whatever.

He smiles faintly. “You are a strange man, Dean.”

“I know.”

He clears his throat and shifts awkwardly, his skin soft against mine. “This is becoming uncomfortable,” he says, looking up the ceiling.

“Huh?”

“That ‘guy’.”

“Oh.”


	3. How You Make Me Feel

He does not touch me with the same practised ease with which he undressed me. His hand is uncertain. I suppose this is new and unfamiliar for him, also. He has probably never been quite so intimate with the anatomy of another man.

That said, the way his fingers drag at the fabric of my boxers creates a very pleasurable friction, and I communicate this with an involuntary moan.

"Yeah? You like that?"

I detect the falseness of his bravado, but I can see that he is resorting to lines that he has used before. He is bringing the familiar into an unfamiliar situation. I imagine it makes him feel more comfortable.

I have a feeling, though, that even if he feels compelled to be the pizza delivery man, it would not be helpful for me to re-enact, say, the role of the babysitter in this situation. Besides, he has not professed any love for me. I am simply helping him to meet a basic human need.

"Yes," is the response I ultimately choose. 

"You want more?"

"Yes. Please." _You have no idea how_ much _more. "_ Yourhands--I--"

He appears to draw some confidence from my enthusiasm. It is, after all, painfully genuine. I do want. I want very much. It is not entirely clear to me _what_ I want. Just…more. Of something. To be closer to him. To have him closer to me. And I am blessed: my ambiguous wishes are granted. His hand wraps lightly around my cock, applying gentle pressure, and I feel a much more forceful version of that strange fizzing heat course through my body, coalescing in my stomach and…and lower.

Dean seems surprised by his own success, or perhaps by the intensity of my reaction. “Geez, Cas,” he says, his voice strangely thick and heavy again, like before, when I woke him up out of his dream, or those times he has looked at women too closely and contemplatively, and suffered the consequences. I think that perhaps I understand the reason for his tone, and if I am right, I am flattered. “How long has it been?”

Thankfully, the question is rhetorical. He is preoccupied with the business of setting a rhythm to the motion of his wrist, and I am consequently incapable of proper cognitive activity. My heartrate has escalated, and my breath is shaking in my throat. I have no answer to give his question beyond a huff of laughter, which is itself not a response to his words, but because the way that his hand is moving up and down the shaft of my vessel’s…my…‘guy’…is making me decidedly euphoric, and my mind has decided to amuse itself by making a random link between this situation and the term ‘Revelation’.

He grunts approvingly as I push my hips down into the mattress, and myself up into his hand. For a long, torturous moment, he takes his hand away, but only to grab roughly at the waistband of my shorts, unceremoniously yanking the garment down my thighs. At this stage, I have been carried too far out by the riptide of my lust to be embarrassed by the strange whimpering sound that passes through my lips as I am caught between the pressures of his thumb, his fingers, and the heel of his hand.

“You _do_ like that,” he murmurs. “Well, well, well.”

I can feel the hardness of his teeth against my skin as he smiles. I try to extend my awareness to other sensations, beyond where he grips me. It is somewhat challenging, but I am able to expand my consciousness to take in the way the streetlamps cast shadows across the ceiling; to feel the cool breeze sneaking in through the propped-open window against my blazing cheeks; to feel his chest against my arm, and all of those other points were our bodies align…I let these sensations fill me, but there is, regardless, a feeling more pure and overwhelming than even my grace, curling and looping inside of me. It seems, in fact, to co-opt my grace. It is as though, at this moment, with the synergy of my Heavenly grace and my first true experience of human pleasure, the body of Jimmy Novak is no longer his.

It is becoming mine.

It seems to have a flow-on effect, because the way that Dean holds me changes too. There is something nameless between us that has intensified. Something unlike anything I have felt before. Perhaps an energy that has never _existed_ before, because as far as I know, no angel has _ever_ coupled with a human in this way. Deliberately and without subterfuge. What I mean is, he knows who I am and what I am, and he wants this.

“Shit, Cas,” Dean moans. His voice is a low, pleasure-laden rumble in my ear, but it is not the only thing which communicates that he is enjoying himself. Not that I had doubted him earlier, when he expressed his need, but there is a difference between the words and the…hard evidence.

He has pulled back from me, his eyes half-closed and his lower lip caught by his teeth as he concentrates.

I lift a hand to rest against the side of his face, guiding it back down to mine so that I can kiss him. His touch is making my toes curl and my body quake, and I want to tell him what it feels like, and how _right_ it feels, but I do not know the appropriate words--not in any language.

He obliges, and our lips meet, and I tell him with everything but words that I had never understood the true meaning of God’s gifts to man until this very instant. The unsettling pressure that has been building up, deep, _deep_ within the core of this being intensifies so much that it borders on painful, and then…relief. I can hear myself making an unseemly noise, and panting, but it is distant, as though I am listening from underwater.

Dean laughs breathlessly, and reaches over to wipe his hand on something. I don’t know what, nor do I care. Similarly, I can feel the hot wet splashes of this human fluid on my stomach and thighs, but I am indifferent, because this body is still quaking, and the physical sensations within it are taking up all of my attention.

I rest against the pillows, my eyes closing of their own accord, trying to allow my breath to return to a natural rhythm.

Dean has tucked his head into the crook of my neck. His hand, slightly sticky, rests warmly on my thigh. Perhaps he is also recovering from exertion.

“I think,” I say, when I find myself capable of speech again, “I can understand why you enjoy that.”

“Good,” he mumbles into my shoulder.


End file.
